The Stoner Case
by Tia-Pixie
Summary: Before there was 'Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson', there was only the drug addict and the detective and in five years time, they probably won't even know each other. No slash, T for swearing but will probably go up. Not a rewrite of the ACD play. HIATUS
1. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock (sadly), it is property of ACD and BBC's Steven Moffatt and Mark Gatiss.**_

**A/N: I'm supposed to be working on other non-Sherlock related things...but they wouldn't leave me alone. I've been seeing quite a few 'how they met' fics for Lestrade and Sherlock and I have kind of hinted at my idea of it in my other Sherlock stuff so I thought I'd have a go. I'm not sure how often this will get updated - I have a lot of other stuff I should be doing so it'll probably get done faster than normal (hey, I'm nothing if not irresponsible). **

**I have no idea what the canon Lestrade's wife's name is or if they have children etc but we do know as of S2.E1 that he DOES have a wife and that they've been separated at some point. Oddly enough though, I wrote this before seeing that but I think everyone assumed he'd had a wife at some point anyway. Erm, it is going to turn into a 'how they met' fic but there's no Sherlock in this chapter, sorry.**

**Anyway, as always let me know what you think. Negative reviews are just as helpful as positive ones although I'd rather have ConCrit than random 'Your fic sucks' reviews.**

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><p><em>2007<em>

Newly promoted Detective Inspector Lestrade's good mood (having nailed a very nasty young man for a particularly vicious double murder) dissipated as he entered his front door. His first thought on entering his hallway was '_Shit_.' His second was that he was being burgled. His third was that his second had been a stupid thought because in his experience, burglars rarely packed their loot into cardboard boxes and colour co-ordinated suitcases with Hannah Montana on them. His mind came full circle and arrived back at his first thought.

"Shit…" Out loud this time. Lowering his briefcase to the floor, he stood uncertainly at the foot of the stairs and gazing up. He raised one hand to his face and rubbing the stubble he found there, glancing longingly at the front door. He wondered if it was worth going out and coming in again – he _might_ just find his little girl dashing down the stair in pyjamas to greet him as usual. Shaking himself out of his thoughts, he took the stairs two at a time arriving at his bedroom door slightly out of breath.

"Charlotte?" He asked, grinning nervously at her, "Charlotte, what're you doing? Where're you – where are the kids?"

"Nick's at a friend's house. Katy's with my Mum." She bit out, not even pausing in her packing. She did not look up even as he approached, only stopping when he reached out and stilled her hands himself.

"Can we talk about this?" Even to his own ears, his voice sounded pathetic. It wasn't what he had been aiming for, it was supposed to be reasonable with a hint of anger. It had come out as defeated with a hint of desperation.

Glancing away first, she met his eyes tearfully. "We have talked, Greg. '_When I make DI I'll be home more, there'll be people under me, we can do Christmas at my Mum's in Dorset._' Remember that?" She pulled away from him, wrapping her arms around herself and sniffing loudly. "We talked, Greg," she repeated, stronger this time, "and I warned you – I _warned you _I would do this!"

"Well, yeah! But I didn't think you'd actually – "

"Actually what?" He winced as her voice seemed to enter the ultrasonic. "_Leave_ you? Why the Hell not? Would you even notice?"

"Of course I'd bloody notice! Charlotte, you're my wife – you can't just leave!" He exclaimed, raising his voice to be heard over hers. _Christ, they were going to have some green young constable showing up soon about noise complaints. _

Returning to her packing, she carried on muttering abuse under her breath. He caught the occasional word such as 'absent-father' and 'workaholic'. He began his own tirade mixed with desperate pleas and promises of change. Out of desperation, he began unpacking things and flinging them across the room as fast as she could put them into the case. If they hadn't both been so distraught it might have looked comical – like when they had taken the kids to his Mum's for the weekend and Nick spent the day emptying buckets of water out of a hole he had dug on the beach even as the tide came in and filled it to his knees with every wave. Grabbing the half-full suitcase off the bed – he couldn't help himself; it was childish he knew but he just could not help himself – he hurled it at the wall ignoring her scream of protest as he did so and grabbed her by the shoulders.

"You can't just leave me," he growled, trying to ignore the voice in his head that was appalled at the way he was making her whimper in his grip, "You're not taking my kids away! They're _our_ kids, Charlotte!"

She held his gaze for perhaps a fraction of a moment then sobbed once, reaching up and curling her hands around his wrists and turning her head to lay on one of his hands. He felt his hands loosen around her shoulders and leaned in wearily, their foreheads resting against each other. Without really thinking about it, he could hear himself whispering her name like a prayer.

"Greg…" He felt her breath, hot on his face as she spoke. One syllable – his own name – and just like that his world was about to end. He nodded against her face, releasing her suddenly and stumbling away from her to slide down against the open door. She stayed on the other side of the bed, watching him warily. After a few moments of listening to each other trying and failing to stifle their crying she crept past him, and lifted the case back on to the bed. He could not look at her as she set to packing once again, feeling his hands shaking as he buried his face in them.

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><p>He wasn't sure how long he sat there in silence while the love of his life packed a suitcase, ready to walk away from him and the thirteen years they had spent together. Finally, he heard her forcing the zip closed and glanced up just in time to see her knock a crystal ornament flying off the dresser as she heaved the case onto the floor.<p>

She swore for the umpteenth time and bent to pick it up.

"Leave it," he heard himself croak, "I'll clean it up in a bit, after you've…" he trailed off and they were left gazing at each other from opposite sides of the room in silence.

"We need a break, Greg," She told him brokenly, "Just…just a break and we'll talk later." She forced a smile for him and he nodded numbly. Neither of them mentioned the fact that she had packed everything in their room that belonged to her as well as every piece of clothing she and the kids had.

He heaved himself to his feet, ignoring the popping in his joints as he did so. Passing a hand over his face, he gestured vaguely towards the case. "D'you want a hand with the um…?"

"Yeah," she replied, clearly on the verge of tears again. "Thanks."

He wondered, as he lugged the huge suitcase down the stairs whether the feeling he was experiencing was similar to that of the murder vic from last year who had been made to dig his own grave. He tried to tell himself not to be so melodramatic but at that moment it seemed fitting. A sudden thought occurred to him as he finally reached the bottom of the stairs and shoved the case on to its feet.

"How are you getting to your Mum's with all this stuff?"

His wife looked stunned, as if the thought had not occurred to her. She glanced hopefully towards the bowl where they kept the keys.

"You're not taking my car." He told her immediately, bitterness beginning to set in. _She was taking everything important away from him – surely she could leave him with the bloody car?_

"I suppose," she said hesitantly, "I'll call a cab."

"Fine. I'll stick the kettle on." _If you've left me any mugs…_ He said abruptly, already heading for the kitchen.

When he emerged, it was ten minutes and four smashed mugs later. His wife sat rigidly on the sofa that they had bought with some of the extra from his first paycheck as a DI. He handed her a mug and took the seat next to her. _We always sit together_, he mused. Othercouples he knew sat opposite or on different seats – or in different rooms – but he and his Charlotte? _Always together. _They sipped coffee in silence but for the occasional tremulous breath and somehow their hands found each other's.

When the taxi man rang the doorbell they both jumped. As she made to stand, he held her hand tighter and she paused.

"Stay?" He breathed, staring straight ahead.

She squeezed his hand, "Greg…" He nodded, taking the hint and releasing her hand. "I can't. I'm…we'll work this out."

He stood too, forcing a tight smile for her. "Yeah," was all he said. She hesitated then went left to answer the door, leaving him alone in their front room.

Gazing at the marks they'd left on the coffee table, he reached down and placed the mugs on the coasters Charlotte had _had_ to have during the last January sales. Rising again, he caught sight of the mirror on the chimneybreast. The man he saw in it had hair that was greying at the temples and had dried at all funny angles and was still wearing the beige trench coat he had had on when he entered the house that night. An eternity ago. He looked exhausted, pale and very much like a man whose wife was leaving him. That wouldn't do. He shrugged off his damp coat and removed his tie, kicked off his shoes and slapped his cheeks a few times to try to get some colour back into them. _There_, he thought dejectedly, _now he looked like a man who was pretty laid back about the fact that his missus was leaving him. Oh, also like a man who had just been slapped by said missus._ He sighed resignedly and wandered into the hallway where the cabby was dragging suitcases into the boot of the car. He leant against the bannister, glancing at his wife who was sat at the foot of the stairs.

"I'll bring the boxes round after work."

"Thanks."

He paused, then: "I won't work so much." She just smiled wanly, standing and dusting herself off.

"Yeah."

"I mean it."

"Okay."

They watched the cabby heaving the last of the cases outside, shooting glares at Lestrade seemingly annoyed that he was not helping.

"Pick the kids up from school tomorrow?" She asked hopefully.

"I can't, there's a press conference for – " He said before he could think about it.

She said nothing, but her eyes filled once more and he could see her jaw clench. He wanted to reach out – hold her – but he found himself stuck, unmoving.

"If I could get out of it – but it's my case, there's no one else to – "

"It's fine."

"That's it, love. You'll not get any more in – it's chocker." She smiled tightly at the driver and nodded. He floundered for a minute in the doorway, glancing between them. "Right, well, I'll just leave you to…right." He lumbered away, leaving them alone.

Lestrade stood against the bannister, arms folded and staring at nothing. His wife stood, hugging herself, in the doorway. She kept taking hesitant steps towards him before thinking better of it. "Right…well, I'll give Katy a night-night kiss from you."

"Yeah."

"And I'll try and give Nick a hug when I see him but well…hello! teenager!" She waved her hands around, laughing manically, clearly trying to relieve the tension. He winced.

"Fine."

She stood awkwardly for a moment longer, then seemed to sag. "I'm not going to apologise, Greg," she sighed, "but well…I love you, so look after yourself."

"Will do." He said tightly, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Well, bye."

He did not look up again until he hears the car door slam shut. He did not go to the door – or even the window – to wave her off as he usually would. Instead, he returned to the lounge and reached for the liquor cabinet in the corner, not bothering to take a glass. He removed his suit jacket and hung it on the end of the bannister as usual then headed up the stairs.

As always, he looked in on his son's room as he passed and for the first time, he went in and turned off the machine that was casting the solar system on to the ceiling – '_It's the only way anyone can ever see all the stars in the middle of London, Dad._' He had always meant to take him to Greenwich, now it was going to be one of those bloody weekend access things.

Weaving out of one room and into the next, he gazed around his daughter's room. Katy was still at the age where everything was pink and unicorns and Hannah _bloody_ Montana, _had he really allowed Charlotte to paint the room like this? _The walls were so fluorescently pink he was surprised his daughter didn't have some kind of vision impairment. He picked up her pink, fluffy clock; it read 4:17 AM – only three hours till he had to be up again for work. Sighing, he dropped down onto the Disney Princess adorned bedding and closed his eyes.

On the bright side, thanks to the press conference, he might actually make it home before Katy's bedtime let alone Nick or Charlotte's. On the downside, who would be there to notice?

At 4:53 he got up and carried Katy's clock, Nick's solar system thingy and the bottle of scotch into his own room.

By 6:12 AM, he had entered his office at Scotland Yard wearing yesterday's suit, made a mug of what the Yard optimistically called 'coffee' and started going through paperwork for his current case. By the time his children would usually be home from school, he had three new suspicious deaths and a missing-person-turned-murder case on his desk. Flicking disinterestedly through the first case, he sighed mournfully.

Didn't the criminal classes realise he had domestic problems?


	2. Chapter 2

_**Disclaimer: Belongs to BBC and ACD not me.**_

**A/N: Shorter chapter than I'd have liked but it seemed a sort of appropriate place to stop it. Still focused on Lestrade and relying very heavily on his OC children in this chapter but they aren't actually going to ever be part of the story (at least I'm not planning on it). This is mainly a 'passage of time/hurrah for Lestrade, he's such a lovely chap but he has problems too' kind of chapter.**

**I'll try and update it within the next few days again. Oh and this **_**is **_**in the summary but there will be the occasional swear word (there's only one in this chapter).**

**Review?**

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><p>It had been a very long day, Lestrade decided, dropping on to the sofa and flicking distractedly through the channels. The case wasn't moving fast enough as it was and today they had been forced to release their prime suspect because of a rock solid alibi. The man was a sleaze that enjoyed many short relationships with women in even shorter skirts, and if <em>he <em>hadn't killed the victim then they had no leads whatsoever. Just once, he reflected, it would be nice to arrest someone and have them turn and say "Yeah, it's a fair cop – I killed them." There'd still be a mountain of paperwork and investigations to do but at least he wouldn't be left at home wondering whether anyone else was going to die because _he_ couldn't do his job right.

He swore loudly and reached for the remote again as his own face flashed across the screen looking harassed as he and a few other officers escorted the suspect into the station. Turning it off, he started towards the kitchen before changing direction and reaching for the scotch he had left on the coffee table the night before. As he was about to open the case file he had brought home, the phone rang. Glancing at the clock (quarter to eight), he answered immediately. He was expecting a _very _important call.

"Katy?" He winced, thinking how to explain if it was not his daughter on the other end.

"Hi Daddy!" Lestrade felt a weary smile creep onto his face.

"Hi," he whispered, trying not to sniff too obviously, "off to bed then? How was school?"

"Okay," she sounded distracted; he could hear the television in the background. He felt ridiculous but he sort of resented not having her undivided attention – but he had barely spoken to her let alone _seen_ her in nearly three days!

"What did you get up to?" He prompted, envisioning the way she watched TV: eyes wide, lips parted and her tongue stuck out slightly through the gaps in her teeth.

"Stuff." He tried not to huff at her.

"What kind of stuff?"

"Just…stuff. Oh! I'm playing my recorder in the concert on Friday, are you coming?"

He hesitated, until they solved this case everyone on the team would be pulling long hours – the only reason he'd got away tonight was that they had absolutely nowhere to go since letting the guy out. He'd sent everyone home and told them to be there extra early the next day. "I dunno, Sweetheart – I'll try."

"Okay," he could imagine the way her bottom lip jutted out and her brow creased in a perfect imitation of his own when she was disappointed. "I'm going to be really good!" She informed him hopefully.

"I know," he assured her, thinking about the noise complaints from next door and the hours of working with pieces of cotton wool in his ears when she had come home with her new recorder last term. "I'll try really hard to be there, love."

"Promise you'll try your best?"

"Yeah, course I will." He heard someone speak in the background and he braced himself for the inevitable statement that always followed. He was not disappointed.

"Grandma says I have to go to bed now."

He glanced at the clock again – barely five minutes since she'd rung. "All right, Love," he said, swallowing hard, "Nighty night, then."

"Night night, Daddy. Nick wants to talk to you." And just like that she was gone.

"Nicky!" He greeted when his daughter was replaced by his son, hoping that he sounded at least mildly cheerful and not at all annoyed that this was his first conversation with his son in nearly a month. His acting was rewarded with a grunt from his son on the other end. "How you doing?"

"Fine."

Lestrade waited but it was soon clear that no further details were going to be offered. "Your sister said you wanted to talk?" Another grunt. "Look, I'm really glad you did, Mate, because I – "

"Can I borrow some money?" His son cut in.

"Erm…what?" Spoken trying not to sound hurt.

"Can I borrow some money?" His son repeated very slowly.

"Er, yeah. Yeah, course you can. How much?"

"Dunno," he could just see his son shrugging and flicking his ridiculous fringe out of his face. "Whatever you want to give me."

Lestrade sighed and bit back a harsh comment; years of being in the force had made him acutely aware of when he was being exploited. "Well, how much do you need?" He said patiently.

He heard his son huff down the phone. "I don't know! There's a load of us going to Brighton on Saturday, I just need some cash."

Lestrade hesitated, puffing air through his lips. "What on your own?"

"Steve's brother might be coming with us." His son said nonchalantly.

"Well, how old is he?" He asked, racking his brains for previous mentions of this 'Steve' and his brother.

"Sixteen."

"No." Lestrade said shaking his head vehemently, eyes wide, even though he knew his son could not see him. Vague memories of his own teenage antics flooding his mind.

"What?" Half stunned, half furious.

"No," Lestrade repeated, "You're not going off to Brighton on your own – you're only thirteen for Christ's sake! What's your Mum said? And don't you dare tell me she said it was okay because I know she wouldn't have." He took a few deep breaths to calm himself while his son swore down the phone at him but ended up shouting back at him anyway. There were a few awkward minutes while he thanked God his son had not just hung up on him. He soon realised why.

"Mum won't be here to notice anyway, she's going away." His son informed him slyly.

"What? Who with?" He asked, being dragged in even though he knew it was only to distract him from the fact that his son had just sworn at him. A lot.

"Some guy from work." He felt as if he'd been punched in the gut and to make things worse, he could just imagine the satisfied look on his son's face as he was speaking. "He's been round a few times too – Mum's out with him now."

Lestrade clenched his jaw. He supposed it was bound to happen eventually, had in fact felt it happening for months – after all he, himself, had gone from a baby-faced choirboy to a punk in eyeliner and riding a motorbike almost overnight – but he hadn't realised just how _fast_ his little boy was going to turn into teenager that he well…_despised_. As for the news that his _wife_ was dating, well, he supposed that was to be expected even if he couldn't help thinking that one month was a ridiculously short mourning period for their marriage and that she was probably seeing this bloke from work _before_ they split up.

"Right," he said eventually, trying to sound disinterested. "Well, never mind what your Mother's up to, you're not going to Brighton on your own – even with some sixteen year old!" He added, cutting short the complaint he knew was coming. He waited while his son silently fumed. "Look," he said, relenting, "if you wanna go to Brighton, just give me a bit of time and I'll take you – you can bring your mates if you like."

Nick scoffed and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like '_fuck that'. _"So, can I borrow some money or not?"

Lestrade rolled his eyes exasperatedly, smiling in spite of himself – even if he did want to throttle him, it was nice to speak to his son instead of getting a dial tone every time anyone tried to pass the phone to him. "Yeah," he said softly, "but you're not going to Brighton."

"Dad! God, you just don't…" Whatever it was he didn't do was cut off by Lestrade's mother-in-law's voice in the background and his son breaking off to speak (just as moodily, Lestrade was quite happy to note) to her. When his son returned to speaking to him, Lestrade flattered himself to think that he almost sounded sad. "I've got to go, Dad. Grandma wants the phone."

"Okay," Lestrade replied tightly, "When do you need this money? – and don't say Saturday."

"Whenever, you could drop it here." Lestrade smiled, relieved to finally hear a hint that his son even vaguely wanted to see him. "We're all going to Katy's concert…what fun."

"Don't be nasty," Lestrade chided automatically.

"Are you coming?"

"I'm certainly gonna try."

"So, no then?" His son responded flatly.

Lestrade sighed. "Look, I'm gonna try, okay? I can't promise but I'll do my best."

They were quiet for a moment, then, "Goodnight, Dad."

"Night night, Nicky." Lestrade grinned as he heard his son smile wearily at the nickname. He swallowed then forged ahead, "I love you." He blurted out gruffly. It was strange – he had never really said it when they lived together – but he always felt like he needed to say it now, as if saying it to his kids would make up for the shambles that was their parents' marriage.

Nick paused, clearly still uncomfortable with his Dad pulling out the 'L' word on him. Somewhere, deep within himself, Lestrade could admit that he always hoped his son would return the sentiment but as before, all his son said in reply was "Yeah, okay," and then a dial tone again.

Replacing the phone in its cradle, Lestrade looked at the clock. Half past eight…time for one drink before he started back in on the murderers and other bad guys of the day. Stretching, he went to close the curtains and paused, staring out the window. Silhouetted against the orange glow of the streetlamp was a figure, tall and almost definitely male, wearing nothing but trousers, a T-shirt and shoes, hair plastered to their forehead. They seemed to be staring intently at him (or at least into his front room) which was unnerving to say the least. Even more disconcerting, was that when he went to lock it, Lestrade peered through the glass of the front door (if the guy was casing the joint, he hadn't been very subtle about it but you can't be too careful), and found the figure to be nowhere in sight.

More than a little concerned, Lestrade was almost grateful the kids were not in the house with him. Telling himself that he had been too long in the force, Lestrade sat down, forgoing the drink and set back in on the case files.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Disclaimer: ACD and BBC's.**_

_**A/N: Sorry it's taken so long to update, it's taking a totally different path to what I had originally thought of. I also spent quite a while debating whether to take down the previous chapter – I personally liked it because it was bit of a filler-in characterwise but *shrug* what did you think?**_

_**Also, last line of this chapter, bit obvious? **_

_**As always, please review.**_

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><p>"If you could all just move back behind the fence now please!" Lestrade barked for what seemed like the hundredth time since arriving at the scene that morning. Honestly, he could understand concern for a neighbour, could even understand passing curiosity but in all his years in the force, he had never understood the morbid <em>fascination<em> with crime scenes. He couldn't understand people slowing down to catch a glimpse of a body at an RTA (_RTC_ a voice in his head corrected him), the endless murmur of asking after all the gory details and gossip about how the perpetrator had '_always had an evil look about them' _and, of course, the gathering crowds outside the crime scenes all craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the figure in the zipped up bag. He shook his head – maybe it was because _they_ didn't have to do the paperwork…or wash the smell of blood out of their clothes and _God, he needed a fag_.

"Sir?"

"What?" He cursed himself as his new sergeant flinched slightly then drew herself up defiantly.

"Path guys are almost finished, Sir."

He turned away from the crowd, back towards the white canvas the team had erected just after he got there. He paused just outside, gagging at the smell drifting out from within the tent. They stepped inside together but he noticed the sergeant excused herself fairly swiftly, holding one hand to her mouth and nose. He couldn't blame her. Her first case as a sergeant and it had to be this. She must have seen scenes like it before, but being expected to be inside, on the scene the whole time was quite different to working as crowd control and securing the scene. Besides, even with the experience he had, Lestrade could happily have joined her outside and let someone else handle it.

He stepped out of the way as some of the scene techs came by, carrying evidence bags and boxes for the…remains. He'd been called out to oversee the recovery and investigation of the body – it wasn't officially murder yet. He watched resolutely as the remains were painstakingly removed from the ground piece by piece.

"So," he cleared his throat, breaking the silence that always accompanied finds such as this one, "what am I looking at here?" he asked, just to have something to say. It was fairly clear even to someone that wasn't a doctor: a figure that said 'woman', face that still said 'girl' – _the universal victims_. God, where had her friends been? In fact, never mind friends, where had her _parents_ been?

The pathologist shot him a look. "I haven't had time to examine anything properly yet," he said tensely, "you'll be the first to know when I have done."

"Come on_, anything _to work on?"

Sighing, the pathologist sat back on his haunches, scowling up at Lestrade. "I'd say less than 24 hours going by decomp but it's hard to tell what with all the er...," he nodded towards the remains, "disturbance."

"Right," Lestrade said, nodding firmly and thinking 'disturbance' was far too kind a word for what had been done to the poor girl before them – _disembowelment_ was more accurate. "I'll get on to missing persons but if she's been gone less than a day…" he trailed off, shrugging.

"That is an _approximate_ timeframe, Detective Inspector. It will most likely change."

"Yeah, okay," Lestrade answered distractedly, already pulling out his phone and going in search of the sergeant. He found her, leaning against the railings of the park and glaring at the assembled crowd who had now been joined by several photographers. "Vultures, aren't they?" He nodded towards them, joining her against the fence.

She glanced briefly at him then nodded silently.

"We'll get him," he assured her, feigning more confidence than he was feeling.

"How do you know?" she asked accusingly.

"I'm _very _good," he informed her conspiratorially, grinning at her. There were a few moments where he wondered if his bravado was unwelcome, but then he noticed her lips twitching and was finally rewarded with a small smile. "Sorry, I'm rubbish with names. What was yours?"

"Donovan. I was with you on the Dowling case last year…but I was only a constable." She looked faintly annoyed – he couldn't say he blamed her really. He ducked his head bashfully.

"Sorry," he repeated, smiling apologetically. He dispatched her whilst he put in a call to the missing persons department at the Yard and watched, with unexpected pride, as she threw herself back into securing the scene and assisting however necessary.

The crowd began to dwindle after a while and all but dispersed when the van left to take the cadaver to the morgue. Lestrade stalked the scene, scanning the square for anything they had missed earlier but found nothing. His attention was drawn by a sudden commotion at the entrance to the square, where he could see two officers blocking the way of a man intent on breaking through the police tape.

"Oi! What's going on?" He barked, approaching the group and taking note of the civilian: pale, dark hair, mid-twenties, jeans, t-shirt and trainers, could clearly use a trip home for a few weeks of his mum's cooking.

"This guy," one of the officers gestured towards the civilian, "says he needs to talk to you – says he's a witness."

"I thought you said there weren't any witness?" Lestrade demanded of Donovan who shrugged sheepishly.

"I never said 'witness'; I said I had information pertinent to your investigations," the man snapped, angrily shaking off the officer's restraining hands.

"Sir," Donovan murmured, turning and ushering Lestrade away from the struggling man, "he's flying!"

"Yeah," Lestrade nodded darkly, taking in the unnaturally dark eyes, flushed cheeks and slightly damp hair, "so I see." Turning back to the man, he dismissed his other officers. "All right," he addressed the young man, "what have you got for me?"

The young man smirked, wetting his lips quickly. "I believe the question, Detective Inspector, is: what have _you _got for _me_?"

Lestrade shook his head – just another junkie, out for whatever he could get. "Handcuffs and a prison cell if you don't stop pissing around – do you actually know anything or are you just getting off on the attention?" He bit out furiously, wondering whether the man had anything left on him that he could be charged for. Wasting police time was one thing, but exploiting a case in which a young girl had ended up dead was something else.

"As I said, I could…_assist._"

"Fine," Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose, "what can you tell me?"

"Plenty – more once I've seen the corpse," the younger man said quickly, an alarming gleam in his eyes.

"Hold on," both men looked at Donovan, who looked horrified. Lestrade could hardly blame her. "You actually want to _see _the body? D'you _really_ think that's going to happen?"

"Fine," he shrugged, almost pulling off 'nonchalant', "if you don't want my help."

"Wait!" Lestrade barked, grabbing hold of the younger man's bare forearm – _was he mad? It was nearly December_! The man glanced at the arm and then at Lestrade himself – Lestrade got the distinct impression he was being sized up for a fight. Against his better judgement, he attempted to bring the kid back on side. "Look, anything you've got will help, but there's no way – _no way – _you can see the body."

The young man sighed disappointedly, "Fine, I'll be in touch."

Lestrade exchanged stunned looks with Sergeant Donovan, "Hang on a sec, you said you had information!"

"I have," he replied indifferently, "but it's nothing you can't get from the scene yourselves." He turned away, ready to blend back in to the busy London streets, suddenly, he turned back to the speechless police officers, "_Think_ about it, Detective Inspector Lestrade."

Lestrade reflected in the early hours of the next morning that he had since been able to do little else.

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><p>It was a week later, when having run DNA tests and dentals, appealing for witnesses, searching the MPs database and coming up with nothing on all counts, Lestrade was beginning to wonder whether they would ever identify the victim, let alone the murderer.<p>

Lestrade sat lounging on his sofa, case notes in hand, trying to force the unbidden images of his little girl's face on this girl's body from his mind. Somewhere, was there a house with faded photographs of her in school uniform with plaited hair and a happy, gap-toothed smile? Had she ever been to the zoo? Been ice-skating? Kissed a boy? Taken it further than a kiss? _Christ, she had been fifteen – didn't her parents care? _

Lestrade looked up, surprised, as he heard the flap on the letter box snap open and shut. Setting his notes aside, he peered out of the window in time to see the retreating back of the man from the crime scene. Crossing to the door, he flung it open and dashed out to the pavement in his socks, shouting for the man to stop. When the man was nowhere in sight, he returned disappointedly to his house, stooping to pick up a piece of paper from his mat.

_Your stupidity and lack of insight astounds me. _

_Russell Square, 3 o'clock. _

What? Russell Square – the scene of crime. Was Lestrade expected to meet this man there? And what sort of man posted things through letterboxes just to insult the occupants? Lestrade crumpled the note up and threw it away from him, scowling. Never mind the reason for this strange man visiting, how the hell did he know where Lestrade lived? His mind was drawn back to a few weeks earlier; a man had been outside and Lestrade had been certain he had been there simply to watch him or rather, his house. Was it the same man? Was he, Lestrade, being followed? Was this man dangerous? And who was he anyway? Some junkie that showed up at their crime scene and not only skulked around hoping to, but actually _asked_ to see the body.

The question he kept returning to, whether he was being stalked or not, was should he meet him? He sighed, there was no harm in _meeting _with the guy even if he was following him, he supposed. A public place in broad daylight...and the guy had looked pretty young, little more than a kid really, Lestrade had 30lb on him easily so there was that…and of course, Lestrade had a gun. But with people like this, he had learned the hard way to never underestimate the weapons that could be concealed in an inside pocket or tucked up someone's sleeves.

Should he go? If he didn't fear for his safety (or that of others) and he had no intention of telling the guy anything he couldn't have read in the papers, where was the harm? A niggling thought in the back of his mind pointed out that if he didn't, there would be a fifteen-year-old child with no name buried and never thought of again. Cursing, he grabbed his jacket and headed out.

* * *

><p>"Donovan!"<p>

The young woman turned, raising a hand in greeting but not smiling. "Sir, what are we doing here?"

"It's a crime scene," he stated, shrugging, "there's no harm in going over it again."

"All the forensics are cleared," she pointed out very slowly, "anything that _was _here, won't be here anymore." She glanced at something over his shoulder then scowled, "Sir? It's that bloke again – the junkie with the death fetish."

Lestrade frowned disapprovingly at her description but turned to greet the younger man. His entire body seemed to be tremble slightly but other than that, it seemed as though he had in his own way made an effort to look vaguely respectable – the T-shirt at least looked clean and he had shaved and combed his lank hair. His pupils which before had been blown beyond what Lestrade thought was possible had retracted to reveal piercing, red-rimmed irises. He now resembled almost every other twenty-something when making their way home from a rather adventurous night out. It was not, by any means, an attractive look, but it beat the bloodthirsty junkie look he had previously been sporting. "Well? I'm here, what d'you want?"

The young man glanced irritatedly at Donovan – he had never said that Lestrade was to come alone though – before replying. "To help my fellow man?" He offered innocently.

Lestrade scoffed, "Yeah, okay then." He looked him over, trying to work out whether the man was high or not. He didn't appear to be. "Okay, fine. What've you got?"

"We've been over this, Detective Inspector. I don't work for free." The man sighed.

"You're not working at all," Donovan pointed out, "you're 'helping your fellow man', remember?"

The man's lip curled slightly as he glared at the sergeant. "That doesn't mean my fellow man can't reciprocate."

"A tenner," Lestrade blurted out, more to stop the two from causing a scene than because he was really willing to give it. At Donovan's scandalized "SIR!", he placated in an undertone, "Look, if he takes it, we'll do him for blackmail or something." Donovan continued to look torn between getting information, and doing what was if not illegal, then entirely unethical. "Look," Lestrade said, fishing coins out of his pocket "go and get some coffees or something right?" Glancing towards the man, he added "D'you want anything?"

The man looked mildly surprised. "Tea? Coffee?" Donovan asked with a put-upon sigh.

"Water," he ventured slightly suspiciously, "I'll have water."

"Could've said 'please'," she muttered, pushing her way past him towards the nearest café.

"Very kind," the young man observed, perching on the edge of the nearest bench and lighting up a cigarette, "to offer to buy me a drink."

"You're welcome," Lestrade replied, joining him.

"I didn't say thank you."

"No, you didn't." Lestrade agreed, frowning. Looking him over again, Lestrade noted with a pang how young and very thin the man was – he was by no means the most extreme case of either that Lestrade had seen, but still… "You could've had a hot drink," he commented, slightly less irritably, watching the younger man hold the cigarette between his lips so that he could rub his hands together to warm them. He suddenly had the mad impulse to grab the fag from him and smoke it himself. "Still, I hear _that_," he nodded towards the angry, red marks in the crook of the man's arm, "causes pretty serious dehydration so maybe you made the right choice." The young man shot him a look out of the corner of his eye, but made no attempt to cover the marks.

"Fifty." He stated bluntly.

"What?"

"Ten isn't enough – nor is fifty, really – but let's call it an introductory rate, shall we?"

Lestrade laughed disbelievingly, "You're not serious?" The man did not answer, "I'm not _actually_ paying you for this. The only reason I even showed up was because – "

"Because you don't have any other leads, yes I know." The young man interrupted. "So I suppose the question becomes, _how much is the monster who killed this poor, innocent little girl worth to you_, Detective Inspector?" Although the language and question itself was very much along his own line of thinking, the emotionless way in which the younger man said it sent a chill down Lestrade's spine. He might have been discussing the weather.

"I'm not paying you," Lestrade informed him bluntly, suddenly feeling a lot less charitable towards him. The young man scoffed. "I'm only here because there is a kid lying dead and we don't even know her name! I'm gonna do whatever it takes to nail that bastard, but I am _not _gonna pay you when I don't even know if you've got anything," Lestrade repeated emphatically.

The man seemed to consider this, then sighed resignedly. "All right, fine, if you really feel this strongly about it," he fixed Lestrade with a condescending look, "I must say, Detective Inspector, I'm a little…disappointed in you."

So thankful was he that the younger man had given in so easily, Lestrade didn't like to tell him that the complete lack of compassion he was showing for the case and the people involved made him more than a little disappointed with mankind in general, let alone him particularly. "Just tell me," he barked, finally losing patience, "or we're going down to the station."

The young man smirked before launching into an explanation that had Lestrade diving for his notepad and wondering whether he was really cut out for this job.

* * *

><p>"You took your time," Lestrade said by way of a greeting as Sergeant Donovan returned.<p>

"There were queues," She shrugged, then added slightly accusingly "and you moved…_Sir._" Lestrade 'mmed' in response, accepting the polystyrene cup she offered him "Coffee," Donovan stated, "and a bottle of water." Their 'informant' considered her mistrustfully before accepting the bottle and surreptitiously examining the seal on it. Tutting, she rummaged in her bag for the sachets of sugar before adding one to her drink.

"Queues, huh?" Lestrade said, raising his brows at the obviously new magazine sticking out from her bag.

"It was busy! There's loads of news coverage – people want to see the scene!" She said defensively.

"Women are positively queuing up at night to be at the scene of a brutal murder – it's done wonders for the tourist trade." Both police officers regarded the other man, trying to work out if he was serious or not. Meeting Donovan's eyes, he suddenly smirked.

"Are we taking him back to the Yard?" She asked, glaring at him.

"What for?"

"Sir, he needs to make a statement. He's a witness."

"He's not a witness," Lestrade assured her, "He's nothing to do with it, he's just made a few…observations." He wasn't sure how comfortable he was telling his sergeant that a civilian had essentially just solved his case, so he was thankful when the man made no reply.

"Well," the man said, standing, "this has been enlightening but I have a meeting with a…friend." Both Lestrade and Donovan snorted at the implications.

"You should lay off that stuff," Lestrade felt compelled by some deep-seated duty as a police officer to tell him.

"So I've been told."

"By the way, when I write up this report, if –_ if _– I mention you, what name should I put?"

The young man seemed to consider him very seriously for a moment before speaking, "Sherlock Holmes."

"Right," Lestrade said derisively, shaking his head but taking the name down anyway. 'Sherlock' looked momentarily confused, then slightly annoyed. Suddenly, he stumbled forward, and Lestrade automatically reached out an arm to steady him. "You all right?" He asked apprehensively.

"Yes," Sherlock assured him waveringly, one hand gripping the older man's shoulder. Then, standing straight, he gave them both a tight smile. "Yes, I'm fine."

"Do you…do you need to see a doctor?" Donovan asked hesitantly, one hand reaching for her mobile.

"No, no, I don't live far."

"Maybe give this meeting with your 'friend' a miss?" Lestrade suggested, still watching him closely.

Sherlock nodded, seeming to see the sense in it and straightened, "Mm," he said noncommittally, "well, I'm sure we'll see each other very soon, officers."

"Why?" Donovan asked immediately, alarmed.

Sherlock looked almost pityingly at her before turning to Lestrade, "Detective Inspector, you really ought to do something about your front garden – it's getting _quite_ out of control." He disappeared into the London rush hour crowds before either officer had a chance to respond.

"He's been to your house?" Donovan asked incredulously.

"Yeah," Lestrade responded nervously, trying to spot him amongst the crowds, "I _think_ he might be stalking me."

"The junkie with a death fetish is stalking you?"

"Yeah…" he said, turning to look at her, "do you think I should be worried?"

Donovan shot him a look.

"Yeah, okay. I should be worried," he checked his watch, deciding they could spare another half an hour. "D'you want another coffee? From an actual coffee shop this time?"

"Sure," Donovan agreed, also checking her watch. "You can fill me in."

They were just about to enter the café when Lestrade stopped dead, rooting around his pockets.

"He's nicked my wallet."


	4. Chapter 4

_**Disclaimer: Not mine.**_

**A/N: Sorry for the slow updates, I'm trying to be faster, honest! The information about Sherlock (i.e. full name, birthday, parents etc.), is actually a mix from the original ACD works and work by William Baring-Gould. The dates were transposed from the 19****th**** century dates to the 20****th**** century to match with the modern retelling and my own personal theories about Sherlock's age in the show.**

**Enjoy and please review! **

* * *

><p>"Come in!" Lestrade called, not looking up from his desk.<p>

"So this Sherlock Holmes guy," Donovan began, forgoing the usual pleasantries of a 'hello' as she entered the office carrying two coffees and a file. Lestrade hmmed in response, keeping his eyes trained on the file he was reading and hoping she would take the hint. She cleared her throat, holding one coffee out. He smiled politely, thanking her for the coffee and returning to his work. She did not leave. "I ran the name and – "

Lestrade sighed, looking up from his work. "Why?" he asked irritably.

"Why what?"

"Come on, '_Sherlock Holmes'_," he made a face, "it was fake, Donovan. Now, I've got stuff to do so if you don't mind," he gestured vaguely to the door and looked back to his work.

"Sherlock William Scott Holmes," Donovan read out, a note of triumph in her voice, "born January 6th 1976 in Bordeaux, parents were _Siger _and Violet, moved to London in '82. After that," she flipped the page over, "lot of international travel, then nothing till he got cautioned for – "

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because he took your wallet," she explained slowly as if it should have been obvious, "and now he's stalking you."

Lestrade was tempted to point out that he had been stalking him for a good fortnight before stealing his wallet but settled for, "Haven't you got any real work to do?"

Donovan stood, holding her hands up in surrender, "I just think," she said, moving to the door, "that if I was being followed by some drug-addict that showed up at a murder scene, I'd want to know as much as I could about him."

"Out." Lestrade ordered, rolling his eyes when he realised she had left the file on the edge of his desk.

* * *

><p>"What are you doing here?" Lestrade asked furiously as he reached his front door that night.<p>

"Came to return," Sherlock fished around his pockets, completely unfazed, before producing a familiar looking wallet, "this."

"Yeah?" Lestrade asked suspiciously, taking it and checking the contents. "Not the money though, I see."

"We did say fifty."

"_You_ said fifty," Lestrade corrected.

"Yes, and I _received _twenty; I'd say you're lucky I brought anything back at all." Sherlock shot back.

Lestrade laughed disbelievingly, "You stole twenty quid and all my cards off me and you want me to be grateful you brought back a wallet that cost about 70p?"

"I believe the usual response is 'thank you', of course some people offer fiscal rewards."

"Thank you? You're lucky I haven't arrested you!"

"Yes, why haven't you?" Sherlock asked, sounding genuinely curious.

"Because…I…I don't have time for this," Lestrade pushed past him and unlocked the door, "Goodnight, Mr Holmes." His attempt to close the door behind him was blocked by a grubby trainer being thrust onto the threshold.

"Don't you want these back?" Sherlock asked, putting on the same innocent voice he had used at the crime scene the week before.

Lestrade sighed frustratedly, seeing his own bankcards in the other man's hand. "Nah, you're all right," he said cheerfully, "I've blocked them."

"_I know_." Sherlock bit out savagely, all trace of the 'good Samaritan' gone.

"_Goodnight_, Mr Holmes." Lestrade repeated, succeeding in closing the door this time.

"Look into the uncle!" Sherlock yelled from outside, sounding a mix of furious and condescending – a mix that Lestrade had come to associate with him despite having had only one previous conversation with him. "It's right in front of you!" There suddenly came a thump that sounded suspiciously like he had kicked the door.

* * *

><p>There followed a month that was thankfully Sherlock Holmes free. Donovan was settling in nicely and he was beginning to think of her as <em>his <em>sergeant, their cases were going well (in retrospect, a sure sign that something bad was coming). And finally, he was on speaking terms with both his children and his wife – they had even managed a vaguely pleasant family outing to the cinema for Katie's birthday. Things were going well and Lestrade had just begun to convince himself that his life was on the up and he would never hear the name 'Sherlock Holmes' ever again, when God or fate stepped in.

Lestrade dumped the keys in the bowl as he entered the hallway, shaking his head like a dog and running a hand through his hair. He glanced at the liquor cabinet as he passed through the darkened living room; he checked his watch. It read ten to four, Charlotte would be round with the kids in an hour – he decided to forgo his customary scotch and instead head for the coffee. The thought crossing his mind as he was already halfway to the kitchen, he bounded up the stairs and locked his gun inside the cabinet – he shuddered to think of his wife's reaction if she dropped the kids round and discovered he still had a gun on him. Humming distractedly, he returned to the kitchen, flicking the lights as he went.

"Terrible weather we're having, isn't it?"

Lestrade credited his years in the force for his not dropping his mug and shrieking like a girl. Instead, he whirled to face the speaker, hand automatically flying to his now empty holster. They stared at each other for a moment, neither man moving.

"How the hell did you get in?"

The man's face remained impassive. "Ever the detective, I see – though, her majesty would be better served if her officers were more occupied with the '_who'_ rather than the '_how'_ or, Heaven forbid, the '_why'_," he sighed, looking almost sad, "the streets would be so much safer."

"Oi! How are we supposed to prove someone did it if we can't prove how? People won't just – " Lestrade caught himself. There was a man – a total stranger – in _his_ house, sipping tea from _his_ mug. Now was most definitely not the time to get into an argument about whether or not the police were doing enough to keep civilians safe. He blinked and shook his head. "Okay, _who _the hell are you? _And_ how the hell did you get in?"

The man glanced into his mug, considering. He scrutinised Lestrade for a moment then seemed ot come to a decision. "Holmes," he said, holding his hand out with a smile that Lestrade suspected was meant to look friendly but came across as somewhat predatory, "Mycroft Holmes."

They both stared at the outstretched hand before Lestrade said incredulously "I'm not gonna shake it if that's what you think."

Surprisingly, Mycroft's smile became somewhat less forced but slightly more patronising as he lowered his arm again. Lestrade got the distinct impression that he just been allowed to win the battle because the war had barely started.

"Please finish your drink and we'll sit down," Mycroft said pleasantly, already returning to the living room. Lestrade glanced nervously towards the back door and began edging towards it until – "Do join me, Mr Lestrade, there are things we need to discuss and I'm sure I needn't tell you how terribly rude it would be for you to leave," Mycroft paused before adding with a slight chuckle, "I'd say '_I know where you live'_ but…"

Lestrade hesitated a moment longer before doing as he had been told and finishing making his coffee and following the strange man into the lounge.

"Ah," Mycroft smiled, turning from where he had been perusing Lestrade's photo collection above the fireplace, he followed Lestrade's eyes to the large family photo taking up pride of place. "Such lovely children," he smiled again but both it and the compliment sounded terribly forced, "they have their father's eyes, I see."

Lestrade nodded, unsure what to say. "You sitting down?" He asked gruffly. Mycroft complied; smile – if one could call it that – still intact. Even as they turned to face one another, Lestrade noticed that the man's eyes kept flicking back to the photo periodically. There was something about the man, perhaps it was the fact that Lestrade was fairly certain he had not seen a genuine flicker of emotion since meeting him, or perhaps it was the way the man's piercing eyes seemed to drill into him, either way, Lestrade knew beyond any doubt that he did not like this man looking at his children – even in a photograph. He stood abruptly and slammed the frame face down. Hesitating and glancing back, he did the same to his wedding photo and one of his parents from last Christmas. He surveyed the man, daring him to say anything about it. Again, Mycroft's expression did not falter – in fact, he looked faintly amused.

"I paid you a compliment, Detective Inspector," he prompted scoldingly, gesturing that Lestrade should resume his seat.

"Yeah," Lestrade muttered faintly, "thanks."

Once Lestrade was seated, Mycroft spoke again. "Now, to business! We have a mutual…acquaintance, you and I," he said delicately, his features tightening into a frown for the first time. "You met him not long ago – "

"Sherlock," Lestrade said simply. Mycroft looked up, surprised. "You've got the same surname, it wasn't hard to work out," Lestrade explained slowly.

"I didn't realise he had given you his real – " Mycroft trailed off. Collecting himself, he continued, "Anyway, yes, I do of course mean Sherlock Holmes. Now – "

"Do you always refer to your own brother by his full name?"

Mycroft blinked, clearly unused to being interrupted. "I find it carries a certain weight that using his first name only, does not," he said congenially, "out of interest, how did you know he was my brother?"

Lestrade bristled, "Same surname, weird first names," Mycroft's smile faltered slightly, "same sort of eyes, I guess – I'm a DI for Scotland Yard you know, it was hardly a difficult leap. You were either his brother or his father."

"I _beg _your pardon?" Mycroft asked, clearly outraged.

Lestrade smirked into his mug, glad to have finally tempted a reaction from the man. Finally feeling vaguely comfortable with the intruder, he considered the man. He was tall – but only slightly so than Lestrade himself – and rather round, as if he had been enjoying a few too many lavish dinners recently. He was pretty upper class from the way he spoke and dressed _extremely _well. All in all, Lestrade was _fairly _certain that he wasn't carrying a weapon but that if he was then he could be easily outrun.

"Okay, fine. So, what d'you want to talk about? It better be important you know – you're lucky I got in before my kids, they're usually home before me,"

It was not, technically speaking, a lie. All the same, Mycroft tutted and sent him an exaggerated frown. "Inspector!" He said chidingly, "but you're right, I've wasted quite enough of your time with these pleasantries," Lestrade scoffed but looked slightly abashed as Mycroft scowled again, "I need you to…detain Sherlock."

"You what?" Lestrade said, nearly choking on his coffee. Whatever he had expected to be asked, that was not it. "You want me to _arrest_ your brother?" Mycroft inclined his head. "What for?"

"I'd have thought that would be obvious," Mycroft commented lightly.

"You're here to ask me," Lestrade said slowly, "to put your brother in prison?"

"No! I – " Mycroft shot him an exasperated look as though he were being incredibly dense, "No," he continued more calmly, "Detective Inspector, I am notasking you to _imprison_ my brother. Simply to…_confine_ him to a cell – or your office, if you would prefer – until I am able to attend him." At Lestrade's blank look, he added frustratedly, "I need to speak with him and he has been evading me for some time now."

Lestrade almost laughed – so, this man was here, genuinely asking him to _babysit_ his twenty-something year old brother because Sherlock kept running away from him. It was utterly ludicrous! "The yard has some great tracking anklets nowadays," he suggested jokingly.

Mycroft nodded sagely. "He picks locks," he said sadly, "and he'd notice."

Unsure what to say to that, Lestrade busied himself drinking coffee. In the hallway, the clock began to chime five o'clock.

"Well," said Mycroft, standing and brushing non-existent creases from his clothes, "I've taken up enough of your time, and your wife will be here at any moment with the children – Nicholas and Katherine isn't it?" Lestrade tensed.

"How do you know that?"

Mycroft tutted patronisingly, "Come come, Inspector." He lifted his jacket and began strolling towards the hall.

"No!" Lestrade cried threateningly, blocking his way with one arm. "I wanna know just how the _bloody hell_ you know my kids names!"

"Inspector," said Mycroft again, pityingly, "the same way you knew that I was Sherlock's brother the moment you heard my name –I _read _it in your file."

"No," Lestrade lied uneasily, "I worked out you were his brother because you – "

"Yes, yes, I know – the family name, the resemblance," he smiled grimly, "and because you _read_ it in the file that Sergeant…," he frowned in thought, "Sally Donovan gave to you last month."

Lestrade dropped his arm in shock and Mycroft brushed past him. Following him into the hall, Lestrade said contrarily, "I never said I'd do it,"

Mycroft turned, smiling pityingly again. "Do come in, Mrs Lestrade," he said pleasantly, opening the front door to reveal Lestrade's somewhat shocked wife and children who had been just about to ring the doorbell.

"Thanks," Charlotte said uncertainly, glancing from the well-dressed stranger to her husband.

"There's no hurry, Detective Inspector. And no need to call, I shall be watching."

Lestrade scowled, but any protest he had died on his lips as Mycroft's gaze turned to his kids and back again, smiling his once more predatory smile.

"Such lovely children," he repeated, "so _dear_ to you, I'm sure."

And just like that, he was gone.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Apologies for delays in updates, life is busier than expected and writer's block has been a real problem recently – everything I have in progress at the moment has ground to a halt. Hopefully updates will be faster soon but if I'm honest it doesn't feel likely. Still, a few reviews would be nice! **

* * *

><p>As Lestrade cursed and honked his way through the London traffic the next morning, his mind was on one thing only – what to do about Sherlock. Several years later, he would meet a recently invalided soldier and they would have many <em>many <em>conversations on the same topic – usually over _many_ pints. But for the present, he was alone and stuck inside his expensive but badly made estate with only a nodding Churchill dog that sat on his dashboard for company. It gazed balefully at him as he shouted random curses and reasons as to why Sherlock Holmes and his '_ooh-look-at-me-I-buy-my-suits-from-a-tailor-not-Marks & Spencer's'_ brother were nothing to do with him. By the time he arrived at New Scotland Yard, he had made three decisions:  
>1) he was going to ask a few of the junior officers to do drive bys of the flat Charlotte and the kids had recently moved into.<br>2) he was going to ring Charlotte and the kids every morning, lunchtime and evening for the foreseeable future – not because he was intimidated by this Mycroft fellow, just because they were his family and he ought to call them more. Even to his own mind, his excuse sounded daft but he had to be _sure_. And  
>3) he was going to look over Sherlock's file again and try to get a look at Mycroft's too – there was no harm in doing a little research, after all Mycroft already knew far more about <em>him <em>than Lestrade was comfortable with.

Not that Lestrade was even considering doing as Holmes senior had asked, but it couldn't hurt to at least get an address for Sherlock.

All of Lestrade's decisions became somewhat moot as he entered his department and was immediately greeted by Sherlock Holmes himself being forced to the floor by three officers, one of whom was sporting an impressive split lip. Taking a moment to comprehend what he was seeing, Lestrade rubbed a hand across his face. "DONOVAN!"

The woman appeared from behind the still tussling mound, and sidestepped them as he jerked his head at her. "Good morning, Sir," she said smartly as she joined him.

"What the hell's going on?" He asked, trying to decide whether to step into the fray or let the others handle it.

She glanced back to where the officers had finally managed to subdue and cuff a snarling Sherlock by forcing him onto his stomach and straddling his waist and ankles. "Oh, him!" she said airily, as if surprised to see them, "he came in just after I did and started asking after you."

Lestrade stared at her blankly for a moment, waiting for her to continue. Once it became apparent that she did not intend to enlighten him any further at present, he heaved a sigh and they both turned to watch the struggling group.

"Right…why'd he kick off? And," Lestrade gestured to the young officer with the split lip, "what happened to um…whatshisname?"

"Death-Fetish punched him," Donovan stated.

"Yeah, but _why?_" Lestrade asked impatiently, not even bothering to reprimand her for the new nickname.

Donovan hesitated, looking slightly abashed, "I threatened to cuff him to the desk," at Lestrade's scowl, she quickly continued, "He was bouncing off the walls, Sir! And he kept trying to leave – "

"So why didn't you let him?"

"Because I thought he might have something on a case like last time! If someone comes to us with info, we're _supposed_ to try and keep people here until they're willing to speak to someone!"

"Yeah, with tea and biscuits, Donovan! Not with handcuffs!"

"He did nick your wallet – I should've arrested him the moment I saw him!"

"Yeah, well you're gonna have to now, aren't you? For assaulting an officer!"

Donovan glanced back towards Sherlock who was glaring murderously at her, "Well_, you're_ here now," she pointed out, clearly suggesting that he do it himself.

"No," he said sternly, "_you_ got him riled up. Read him his rights, and sit with him in my office till I get back – I've got to make a call."

"I'm not a babysitter!" Donovan exclaimed incredulously.

"No," he agreed, "you're a copper supervising a detained suspect for assaulting a police officer – several police officers!"

Leaving Donovan to fume but certain that she would follow his orders, Lestrade stepped back into the outer corridor, fishing his mobile out from his pocket as he did so. Dialling the archives downstairs, he requested Sherlock's file and that of his brother, attempting small talk about him tearing apart his office while the woman on the other end ignored him and looked up a reference. He also spared a moment to wonder what was taking the admin department so long to digitise the records – there were stations in deepest Somerset with more files on the network than the Yard had! Pondering this, and trying to calm himself after the initial shock had worn off from seeing his department in such a shambles, he almost dropped his phone as it buzzed in his hand. Thinking it was a case, he answered immediately.

"_Your swift compliance is much appreciated, Mr Lestrade. There will be no need to interrupt your working day any further – please, go about your business as if he were not there."_

Freezing as the identity of the caller dawned on him, Lestrade started to interrupt but the smooth voice on the other end continued, clearly expecting no response.

"_I shall be along presently_." Lestrade was left blinking in confusion and disconcertion, and listening to a dead line.

* * *

><p>Pausing to tell the young officer that had been struck to get himself to a first aid kit, Lestrade finally made it to his office. Closing the door behind him, he surveyed the young man and woman inside. Donovan, who had stood as he entered, leant against the windowsill looking disgruntled but otherwise okay. Sherlock was slumped in the visitors' chair, scowling and dabbing at his nose with a slightly bloodstained tissue. Although Lestrade got the impression that this elder Holmes brother would not have objected in the least to his brother being handcuffed to the desk, Lestrade was pleased to see that Donovan had at least uncuffed him.<p>

"Right," said Lestrade calmly, as he took up his own seat at the desk, "what can I do for you, Mr Holmes?"

Both Donovan and Sherlock looked at him as though he were mad. "Sir! What about – "

"Yeah, I know," Lestrade interrupted, his eyes fixed on Sherlock, "we'll get to that. But first, I want to know why he came."

Sherlock flashed a grin that very much resembled his brother's and leant forward as if disclosing a secret. "You've been consorting with the enemy, Lestrade."

"I've what?"

"A pact with the devil," Sherlock continued as if he had not spoken, "Tell me, is he paying you?"

"No," Lestrade stated flatly.

"Then what's in it for you? Promotion? A knighthood? _Women?_" Sherlock snapped, flinging himself back in his chair in disgust. Lestrade could not help the involuntary glance towards the lone photo frame that sat on his desk. Reaching out with lightning reflexes, Sherlock examined the picture, eyes narrowed. "Your…children?" He asked quietly, sounding almost puzzled.

"Sir," Donovan interrupted tentatively, "what's he on about?"

Firmly reaching out and replacing the frame on the desk, Lestrade cleared his throat gruffly. "Your brother's on his way."

Sherlock shrugged stiffly as though he were expecting it but was still unhappy about it, and continued to gaze at the back of the photo frame. Suddenly, he shivered as if he were only now aware of the air-conditioned room.

"Donovan," Lestrade called, "you couldn't get us a couple of teas could you – and a glass of water?"

"So now I'm your tea girl as well?" She snapped. At his look, she heaved a great sigh and nodded. Pausing at the door, she asked Sherlock, "One sugar or two?"

"Six," he replied, leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed. "And coffee, not tea."

Donovan glanced at Lestrade who shook his head slightly, mouthing "_tea_!" and nodding at Sherlock. She nodded and went on her way.

Since Sherlock made it clear that he was quite happy to sit in silence until she came back (and probably after that as well), Lestrade shuffled some papers around, logged into his computer and started checking emails, shooting glances at Sherlock every now and then. Just as Lestrade was beginning to suspect he had fallen asleep, Sherlock spoke.

"So," he said slowly, still not opening his eyes, "what did _dearest _Mycroft have to say?

"Not much," Lestrade answered, now playing solitaire and thanking God for the quiet days of working for the Met. "Broke into my house, said he wanted to speak to you, read my mind a bit, then not-quite threatened my entire family."

Sherlock 'mm-ed' in response.

"Is he always like that?"

Sherlock huffed a laugh then sat up straight in his chair and looked directly at Lestrade. "No," he told him reassuringly, "usually he's not nearly so polite."

"Crikey."

Again, Sherlock 'mm-ed' his agreement. He shivered again.

"D'you want to borrow my jacket?" Lestrade asked, wondering if it was the junk or the lack of it causing Sherlock's sensitivity to the room temperature. When Sherlock's answer was to shiver again, he shrugged it off and held it out. "Come on," he prompted.

Sherlock looked distastefully at the proffered jacket but after Lestrade had impatiently pointed out that Sherlock's clothes were currently stained with his own various bodily fluids (and, though Lestrade did not say so, in all likelihood that of others) Sherlock eventually reached out and took it. Lestrade watched approvingly from the corner of his eye as Sherlock donned the suit jacket and pulled it tightly around himself. They both looked up as a young woman walked in and handed Lestrade some case files. Thanking her, Lestrade sat and started flicking through them. He scowled meaningfully as he caught Sherlock peering over from his side of the desk and there followed a brief staring contest before Sherlock flung himself back into his chair.

"Why can't I read them? They're _obviously _my files!" He muttered petulantly.

Lestrade didn't ask how he knew that, but he did put them to one side. "You've been busy," he commented lightly, "four weeks, two cautions for obstructing an officer, and an arrest – trial pending – for the same thing coupled with stalking _and _an application for a restraining order. All of them with detective inspectors or above. Not to mention assaulting an officer and resisting arrest earlier."

Sherlock gazed at him for a moment before replying, "I didn't resist arrest. By the time your sergeant got around to arresting me, there was very little opportunity to _'resist'_."

"And everything else?"

Sherlock shrugged, his expression a mix of arrogance and impatience. The two men lapsed into silence, broken only by Lestrade's typing and Sherlock's drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair.

"When d'you last take anything?" Lestrade asked at length.

Sherlock's heavily lidded eyes slid to him, narrowing suspiciously, "Why?"

"Just wondered, that's all," Lestrade replied, holding his hands up placatingly, "you still got any on you?"

"Professional curiosity?" When Lestrade continued to gaze at him undeterred by his snide remark, Sherlock continued irritably, "I doubt even you would be foolish enough to enter a police station carrying drugs."

"Doesn't answer my question," Lestrade said, choosing to ignore the insult.

"Sergeant Donovan _searched_ me; do you really think I'd be sat in your office waiting for coffee if I were in possession of class A drugs?"

Lestrade nodded sagely, watching as Sherlock shuddered. When the younger man had collected himself, Lestrade repeated quietly, "So, when did you last use anything?"

Sherlock exhaled harshly. "This morning."

"It _is_ this morning," Lestrade pointed out, "what time?"

"_Earlier_ this morning," Sherlock spat back. "What _time_ did youbrush your teeth this morning?"

Lestrade frowned. "It's not the same thing," he said patiently. When Sherlock looked set to argue, he cut him off, "_I'm _not sat here bouncing off the ceiling wondering where my next Colgate fix is gonna come from."

Sherlock scowled, then seemed to make a conscious effort to sit perfectly still. "I'm fine," he muttered, entire body twitching as the last of his high continued to wear off. Lestrade eyed him up and down sceptically but did not comment any further.

Again, they lapsed into silence. Lestrade began to get the feeling that Donovan was deliberately taking as long as she possibly could with the drinks – although whether it was because she was making her displeasure with him known or simply to avoid spending anymore with 'Death-Fetish', he wasn't sure. Eventually, he reached over and started perusing Sherlock's files again. "Sherlock?" Sherlock 'hmmed', his head back, eyes closed. "Have…" Lestrade flicked back through them in case he had missed anything, "have you never been picked up for," he gestured vaguely at him, "this?"

Still not looking at him, Sherlock smiled slightly. "I assume you mean the drugs," he said, sounding almost amused. "Never so much as a caution – are you surprised?" Continuing before Lestrade could reply, he commented, "You really shouldn't be - yourpeople are astoundingly bad at their jobs."

"My team do just fine," answered Lestrade loudly, "we'd do better if we didn't have people like _you_ hanging around us all the time asking to see the body!"

Any response Sherlock had intended to offer was cut off by another violent shudder which despite his efforts not to, had Lestrade wincing in sympathy – you didn't work at the MET this long and not get to have a pretty good idea of the _joys_ of coming down off of some highs. Sometimes he wondered whether it wasn't kinder to just let people stay addicted regardless of the law.

"Why do you hang around?" Lestrade asked quietly – any previous attempts to discuss the younger man's motivation had so far been met with stony silence but he was nothing if not hopeful.

"Why do you investigate such _dreadful_ things?" countered Sherlock, his voice suggesting his opinion of the crimes was quite the opposite.

"Because I want to help," Lestrade answered immediately. Sherlock scoffed. "I do! Anyway, someone's got to do it."

"So it's not because the terrible things that happen in the world can be…delicious – if the perpetrator is clever enough that is, otherwise they're just dull. Another murder," he waved one hand airily, "but who really cares?"

"I do," Lestrade was beginning to feel distinctly uncomfortable.

"It's your job."

"It's a moral obligation! What kind of person looks at a crime scene – a scene where something really terrible has happened – and feels…excited?"

Sherlock went conspicuously silent. As the realisation hit him, Lestrade froze. "You…you don't? Do you?"

"Oh…" Sherlock drawled in amusement, finally looking up, "you're worried. There's really no need to be, Lestrade. I'm far more of a danger to myself than anyone else."

Strangely, Lestrade did not feel as comforted by that as he thought he should. There was no denying though that he believed Sherlock's statement whole-heartedly, regardless of what Donovan said. But it was…unsettling. "Your brother," he began, attempting to move away from thoughts of what the man before him may or may not have done in his lifetime, "he erm, he doesn't have a file – well not much of one."

"Does that surprise you?" Sherlock asked again, cocking his head slightly.

"Well…," Lestrade floundered for a second, "yeah! Everyone has _something _on 'em, you know, national insurance? Inland Revenue? Jesus – a TV licence or _something_? He's like the invisible man!"

Sherlock smirked slightly.

"It's like," Lestrade went on, "I _know _he exists because I've met him but officially he's just…not there."

"Fake name?"

"What both of you?" Lestrade threw back doubtfully. He was beginning to wish he hadn't come in this morning – it was barely 10 o'clock and he already felt like he'd been battling wits with a suspect for hours. He supposed he had, really. "He's just not there," he repeated bewilderedly.

Sherlock shrugged and closed his eyes again. "How peculiar," he drawled, completely disinterested now that conversation revolved around his brother and not him.

Any further conversation on the matter was interrupted by Donovan's arrival. She entered juggling two mugs of tea and a bottle of water, which she placed with some force onto Lestrade's desk. "Connor's not pressing charges," she informed them bluntly.

"Who?" Lestrade asked blankly

Donovan rolled her eyes, "Connor. The guy he," she jerked her head in Sherlock's direction, "lamped earlier, he's not pressing charges and he's refusing to give evidence."

"That's good of him," Lestrade said, surprised.

Donovan's face clearly showed her feelings about the matter.

"What _is_ this?"

Both officers turned to Sherlock, who was examining the contents of his mug suspiciously.

"What is this?" He repeated in disgust. "This is _tea_, I didn't want tea – I _specifically_ said I–"

"The last thing you need is caffeine and sugars," Lestrade advised him, cutting off the impending argument since Sherlock and Donovan were glaring at each other as if morally offended. "Honestly, who has _six_ sugars anyway?" Sherlock's glare transferred to Lestrade who held it briefly before sighing wearily, "Just drink something, will you?"

"You heard the good inspector, Sherlock," all three of them turned to the door in surprise as the room's fourth occupant made himself known, "drink up, there's a good chap."

"Mr Holmes," Lestrade said, attempting a polite smile even as his mind screamed at him to throw the man out, _demand_ to know which of the senior officers were in his pay, arrest him or, as his initial instinct said – just do whatever it took to get the hell away from him. As much as Lestrade told himself he was being overly dramatic, he felt as though every time Mycroft Holmes entered a room all the comforting warmth was sucked out of it. Donovan clearly felt no such discomfort, unaware as she was of Mycroft Holmes' unconventional ideas of social etiquette and criminal law.

"Who's this?" She asked, eyeing Mycroft suspiciously.

"Ah yes," Mycroft smiled, turning to her, "Sergeant Sally Donovan, I presume? A pleasure, I'm sure."

From Donovan's face, it was clear that the pleasure was all Mycroft's.


End file.
